head was full of mist. It used to comfort him. It used to soften the edges of the raw, empty places of his world, so he didn’t cut himself bloody on them. It used to help him forget. But the memories were too strong, the good and the bad, running together like the blood and the mud in the rain at Waterloo. “Too many ghosts,” he told the figure that stood in the doorway. Her mouth quirked upwards, eerily familiar as only phantoms could be, promising recognition and offering only heartbreak. “Perhaps if you took less laudanum, you would see fewer ghosts.” “Strange advice for a ghost to give.”
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